Through Their Eyes
by theonearmedman
Summary: This is a little excerpt from what I hope will turn into a full story about the experiences of the Russian Army in the events of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2.
1. Chapter 1

"Soldiers of the Russian Federation! One week ago, a terrible, unforgivable atrocity was committed against our nation, and against our people! One week ago, a group of terrorists attacked Zakhaev International Airport in the heart of Moscow. Hundreds of civilians, and dozens of FSB personnel were killed, in a cowardly and vicious gesture by the enemies of the Motherland. But these were not just any terrorists, my friends. They were trained soldiers, sent by a nation we thought was an ally! These men, these cowards, were Americans! Yes, brave soldiers, these villains who murdered so many of our people were sent by the United States, in a vain and foolhardy attempt to weaken our unity and resolve, to express their imperialist discontent with our self-determination! In light of this new information, President Sokolov, in conjunction with the Duma and Federation Council, has raised the military to primary alert, and has ordered all soldiers of the Motherland to be ready for whatever may come! Steel yourself, my brothers in arms, for on this day, we go to war!"

Near the back of the crowd of soldiers, First Sergeant Sergei Murasyev fumed silently, remembering that terrible day. _The Federal Bureau of Security regrets to inform you that your brother, Lieutenant Fedor Murasyev of the Third Tactical Detatchment, was killed in the line of duty while on assignment in Moscow. The Bureau, along with the President of the Federation, extend their deepest sympathies to you and your family in this difficult time._ "Those miserable American dogs..." he muttered to himself. _It was bad enough that Fedor was killed, but to die at the hands of the United States?_ One of his men, Private Bogdanov, turned to him. "Sergeant, when are we going to Washington?" _So young, so green. Already thinking about the final victory._ "I don't know, Private, but when we get there, we're going to burn it down."

**This is an excerpt from what I hope will eventually turn into a full and proper storyline concerning the experiences of Sgt. Murasyev and his fellow Russian Army soldiers. This is my first story to be uploaded to this site, and I would greatly appreciate any feedback or commentary.**


	2. Eve of Destruction

Note: I do not own Call of Duty, nor do I claim any right to draw monetary benefit from this or any other story concerning copyrighted material.

**The Eve of Destruction**

**14:00**

**1st Sergeant Sergei A. Murasyev**

**18th Mechanized Division**

**Aboard Landing Ship S-41, Off the East Coast of the United States**

"Urgh, damn waves," Sergei muttered to himself as the landing ship lurched off toward the left. After a brief glance around the interior of the BTR-80M, to ensure that nothing important had fallen out of place, his eyes drifted back to the briefing sheet. _18th Division is to advance on Andrews Air Force Base, objective being to seize the facility in tact if at all possible to serve as a landing point for additional reinforcements and supplies. Units are to advance in staggered lines, using city streets rather than major highways so as to avoid unecessary engagement with enemy air units. All elements of 18th Div. are to focus entirely on reaching objective point, other units will advance in your support to clear and secure residential and commerical districts. Enemy resistance is expected to be light, but all units should be prepared for engagement at any time._ He had read the paper at least thirty times since the fleet had assembled and the landing troops had gone into readiness positions, and he was fairly confident that he could have recited it verbatim for the General himself, if he had been inclined to ask. He was frustrated about the whole situation. How were they supposed to pull off an operation like this, without the Americans destroying their forces before they landed? He'd asked Captain Belinsky about it, only to be told that Military Intelligence had taken care of it, and that he wasn't to ask questions like that again, something about "defeatism" and a "negative effect on troop morale." The same old story, exactly what they'd said about the Urals during the Civil War. _They'd better have it taken care of, or the Motherland will have thousands of new martyrs for the cause._ Private Bogdanov spoke up from the driver's seat, "Hey, Sergeant! Do you have any more of that dramamine? I think I'm going to spew all over the controls!" Sergei grumbled in frustration, more at the difficulty of walking inside an APC which was itself inside a swaying ship than at the young man's request. He dug into one of the pockets on his BDU and tossed a small tablet to the private, who dry-swallowed it with a mutter of thanks. "Lukin!" Sergei called to the gunner on the roof. "What's taking so long?" The corporal opened the hatch and leaned in. "I'm almost finished, Sergeant, but the thermal imager is still off a few degrees." Sergei groaned unhappily, the damn thing had been knocked off its mounting the day before, when a large wave had caused one of the other BTRs to slide into theirs, and without it, Lukin would have to use his own two eyes to target the enemy instead of the high-tech gadget designed to ensure that he didn't squander his ammunition like he normally did. "Should I go get one of the engineers, Sergeant?" Private Filatov asked. "No, you know we're not supposed to go up on deck. Lukin will just have to manage." As if on cue, the gunner popped back down, head first. "Do you have a hammer? Or maybe just a loose boot? I think I can pound it back into place." Sergei got out of his seat, grumbling in frustration. "Get back down here, I'll fix it myself." Lukin shrugged nonchalantly, a somewhat bizarre gesture considering his position, and said, "Fine by me, Sergeant. Just be careful with the screws, I dropped one before and it took me half an hour to find a replacement." Lukin climbed back into the BTR and took his place in the gunner's seat, behind and above Bogdanov, and Sergei ascended the short ladder to the roof. Once he got a good look at the big KPVT cannon on top, he shook his head in astonishment. "Oh, Lukin," he called down into the hold. "Did you by any chance notice that you left two bolts off?" He was mildly pleased to hear the corporal groan in embarassment, then took out a wrench and set to work. After about five minutes, the imager was facing forward again, and Lukin reported that it was working properly. After sitting down at his station, Filatov spoke up again. "Hey, Sergeant, you think we can get American radio on that?" Sergei scowled at him briefly. "Why would you want to listen to their imperialist garbage?" Filatov shrugged. "Sorry, Sergeant, but they do play good music." Against his better instincts, Sergei found himself flipping the switch on the radio and twisting the dial around, passing through a gaggle of military transmissions as he looked for a civilian station on the FM band. Finally, one showed up. "There, happy now, Filatov?" The private grinned slightly. "Thanks, Sergeant. I love this song." The soldiers sat quietly for a while, listening to the tune on the radio. Sergei couldn't help but think how appropriate a song it was, considering the present situation. _"It's the end of the world as we know it, it's the end of the world as we know it, it's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine."_


	3. From a Clear Blue Sky

Note: As previously stated, I do not own Call of Duty, and I claim no right to draw monetary or proprietary benefit from any material copyrighted by parties other than myself.

**From a Clear Blue Sky**

**Day 1, 16:35**

**Captain Nadezhda L. Petrovna**

**22nd Naval Aviation Wing, Attached to the Aircraft Carrier **_**Imran Zakhaev**_

**Near Washington, D.C.**

The Sukhoi-50s were flying low to the ground, hoping to avoid American radar as long as possible, and Nadezhda Petrovna was fairly confident that the bottoms of her wings must be stained green from skimming the trees. She checked her wingmen's positions to ensure that they were keeping formation, then checked her radar for the Tupolev-95 bombers that were following behind. Noticing that the lead bomber was getting a little too close, she spoke into her radio,

"Hammer 1, you need to maintain your distance. Reduce airspeed and adjust your formation."

"Roger, Captain, adjusting speed."

_Good, that might just keep you alive, Gavrilovich,_ she thought to herself. The mission was simple enough, escort the bombers to Hampton Roads Naval Base, clear the skies of any enemy aircraft, and then sit back and watch while Gavrilovich's people and the other bomber wings did what they did best. The problem was that, if half of what she'd heard about U.S. warships was true, the Russian pilots would probably get shredded by antiaircraft missiles before they ever got close enough to do any damage. The Colonel had seemed confident enough, but then he wasn't flying this mission, and Nadezhda had a sneaking suspicion that her parents were going to be getting one of those dread telegrams by the time all this was over.

Over the radio, the voices of the other wing leaders started coming in, reporting their positions and readiness. The attack was going to hit Hampton Roads from three sides, the goal being to take out the fleet, the local naval air station, and the communications center before the Americans could respond. Nadezhda knew that this plan could go very, very wrong in many, many ways, but it wasn't her place to question Command's orders.

"Alright, people, give me one last status report," she called to her wingmen.

"_Berkut 2,_ all green here, Captain," "_Berkut_ 4, all systems are fine," "This is _Berkut _5_, _everything reads normal," "number 7, everthing is good," _Berkut _8 here, I had some trouble with one of my airbrakes earlier, but it seems to be sorted out, I'm green here, too," "Sorry for the delay, Captain, I thought the radio was on the fritz again, _Berkut_ 6 combat ready."

"_Berkut_ 3, report!" Number three had been giving her trouble ever since he'd boarded the _Zakhaev. _He was a green-as-grass airman, the son of one of the Ultranationalist members of the Duma, and Nadezhda still wasn't entirely sure that he could handle an SU-50 on a training mission, much less a combat operation.

"Um..sorry Captain, checking. Everything looks fine here."

Nadezhda breathed a little easier, at least he was still in the air. "Alright, _Berkut_ 3, when the fighting starts, I want you to keep clear, understood?"

"But...Captain, I want to fight!"

"I understand that, Airman, but you aren't ready for this kind of combat. Just keep back, and if any American fighters come after you, you don't think twice, just gun it back to the carrier."

"I...understood, Captain." His voice was dejected, but she would rather have him upset than a casualty. It wasn't just that he was from an important family. Nadezhda remembered how terrifying her first aerial engagement had been. Fresh out of flight school, and suddenly she was tangling with Loyalist aces over the Urals; she wouldn't have survived if it hadn't been for her own Captain's decision to send her back to base. _Sitting in the ready-room, waiting for the rest of the squadron to land, expecting them to be full of laughs and stories of daring victory...less than half of them came back, and he wasn't one of them..._She shook her head, trying to clear out the old ghosts. "Pull yourself together, Nadezhda."

Having regained her composure, she spoke to the squadron again. "Alright, everyone, get ready. They'll be picking us up any second now." She switched to the bomber wing's frequency and spoke again. "Hammer wing, this is _Berkut_ 1, we are entering the combat zone

The harbor slowly came into view in the distance, and the squadron slid upwards to prepare for engagement. She glanced down at the radar, and for a moment she was sure that it must be malfunctioning: there were no aerial contacts over the base. What was more, looking down at the ships, they were all lined up, as though this was just another day. _They can't have missed us, could they? _She checked everything again, with both instruments and eyesight, but it wasn't a mistake: the Americans weren't doing anything, the ships were still, no planes taking off or lights flashing, nothing. They were sitting ducks.

"Ah...this is _Berkut_ 1 to all attack elements, Situation _Tiger_, I say again, _Tiger_."

This declaration brought a mass of disbelieving chatter over the radio. Gavrilovich was the first to get a clear message through.

"Are you sure about that, Captain?"

"Yes, Lieutenant, there is no mistake. Situation _Tiger_ is in effect."

The Command channel lit up next. "Command to all attack elements, Situation _Tiger_ is confirmed, all units engage your targets."

Nadezhda sighed in relief, then called her squadron. "Alright, everyone, take up positions over the target area and watch for enemy fighters. Hammer wing, you know what to do."

As her fighter jerked upwards, she looked down towards Gavrilovich's Tupolevs as they entered the combat zone. She watched them aim towards the carrier _Ronald Reagan_. She watched them release a spread of Kh-22 anti-ship missiles. And then she watched as those missiles collided with the carrier, still sitting motionless at its mooring, punching massive holes in its armor and setting off massive explosions within its bowels, tearing the flight deck and bridge apart. Over the radio, she could hear the bomber crews celebrating.

"Did you see that!? We shredded the imperialist dogs!" "So much for American technology!" "I think it's sinking, one spread and the _svoloch_ is going down!" "Hey, aren't those things nuclear powered? Is it going to explode?" "Shut up, Smotrov, Command wouldn't have had us sink the thing if it was going to blow."

The sky was getting crowded with SU-50s now, the other fighter wings having arrived to join the screen. Below, the bomber groups were loosing their munitions, sending more ships to the bottom and destroying ground facilities in great bursts of flame. Nadezhda glanced down at her radar again, and noticed several dots approaching from the shore.

"All fighter squadrons, this is _Berkut_ 1, we have inbound enemy aircraft. Prepare for engagement!"

Suddenly, her radio started chattering again, but in English rather than Russian. _How could they not screen their communications?_ Her command of the language wasn't ideal, and all she could understand was something about "radar not working" and "not seeing." This gave her a moment of pause. She'd been flying SU-50s for more than a decade, and she knew that, while it was an excellent fighter, it was definitely not a stealth. What was going on? As if her confusion wasn't deep enough, the American F-22s were coming straight in, as though they really couldn't see any of the Russian fighters waiting for them.

The Russian pilots dove down onto their adversaries from above, knocking three of them out of the air on the first pass. The other Americans scattered and began evasive maneuvers, apparently trying to track targets by eyesight rather than instruments. It was a dangerous proposition, but Nadezhda knew better than to discount them entirely. After all, she'd shot down two Loyalists using nothing but her eyes, and that was during a fierce Siberian blizzard. Sure enough, one of the F-22s got a burst off with its cannons, sending one of _Strelets_ squadron's pilots down in flames. _Damn you, Americans! I'll show you how it's done._

She swung her fighter around behind one of the Americans and held position long enough for one of her R-77s to lock onto the semi-stealthed target, then watched in grim satisfaction as the blinded enemy took the hit directly in the back of his cockpit. The other pilots were doing much the same thing, and Nadezhda was sure that it would all be over in a matter of moments. Suddenly, her contact alarm started going off. While she had been patting herself on the back, one of the Americans had mimicked her own maneuver, and was now directly behind her, spraying 20mm rounds around her fighter. Growling in anger, she dove down, breaking his line of sight and trying to loop around him, only to find that he was still on her tail, using his plane's high maneuverability to keep her in view. She was about ready to break the circling maneuver and risk it all on the hope that he would lose sight of her, when the American plane exploded in mid-air, showering debris everywhere.

"This is _Berkut_ 3, are you alright, Captain?"

Nadezhda straightened out her course before replying. "Yes, Airman, I'm fine, and thank you for the assist. That said, if you ever ignore my orders again, I'll have you shot. Understood?"

"Ah, y-yes Captain, understood."

Around her, the other Russian pilots had cleared the air of American fighters, and a glance down at the airfield told Nadezhda that they wouldn't be sending any more up any time soon. Massive craters and plumes of smoke were all that remained, courtesy of the Tupolevs' massive Kh-555s, and the harbor was awash in oil slicks and smoking hulks.

"_Berkut_ 1 to all attack elements. Mission accomplished, return to base."

**Before anybody asks, yes, we will be seeing much, much more of Sergei in chapters to come. I just wanted to expand the story a bit with other characters, and we do have one new one to meet yet. Also, I know the whole "Berkut 3 saving the Captain" thing is a little cliche, but I felt that I had to give the kid a role in the chapter. Thanks to everyone for their advice and feedback, and I hope to have more up soon.**


	4. The Wolf and the Jackal

Note: I do not own Call of Duty, and claim no right to draw monetary benefit from this or any other story based upon copyrighted material.

Note: For those of you who don't know modern Russian socio-political affairs, the FKS is basically the successor agency to the KGB.

**The Wolf and the Jackal**

**Day 1, 16:45**

**[Name Redacted], Designated FKS Field Asset 139**

**Washington, D.C.**

He took a deep breath, and tried to find his center. Before him was the most important assignment of his life, more vital to the survival and prosperity of the Russian Federation than anything he, or any other agent since the end of the Cold War, had ever done. 139 wasn't nervous, he knew what he was capable of, and he understood that this mission was well within his abilities. Trained by the best Spetsnaz commandos of the modern era, baptized in fire during the Civil War, refined with additional training in deep cover operations and advanced sabotage techniques by the FKS, he was as close to the perfect soldier as a mortal could hope to be. No, he couldn't be nervous, the training cadre had beaten that out of him years ago. _So what is this feeling?_ He realized what it was: he was adrift.

It wasn't an uncommon reaction for those in his situation, he didn't officially exist. His family had been told that he'd died during the Civil War, his name had been completely purged from all government and military records, his sole function in life was to fulfill orders given by men in the exact same situation. Half of the time he wasn't even sure he remembered his own name, he had taken on so many over the years. In Germany, he had been Otto Misch, certified public accountant and, unknownst to his clients, he had redirected huge amounts of money to dummy corporations owned by the FKS. In Britain, his name had been Edgar Stanton, underground journalist, and his exposes (aided by expertly forged materials from Moscow) had completely discredited a number of prominent anti-Russian politicians. In South Africa, he had assumed the identity of Johann DeBeers, an Afrikaaner militant who had helped spark massive race riots that, in addition to destabilizing the pro-Western government, occupied the attention of the U.N. long enough for the Russian military to engage in a series of clandestine mini-wars that had brought much of the Commonwealth of Independent States back under Moscow's control. And now, in the United States, he was James "just call me Jimmy," Lowry, a Texan electrical engineer whose job just happened to put him in the same room as the controls regulating the power supply to the D.C. metropolitan area.

He shook his head, trying to center himself and focus on the mission at hand. The charges had been set, cleverly concealed within the turbines themselves, and were primed to blow in about twenty minutes, when the first troops started landing. That had been the easy part. The next stage was going to be much more difficult, and of much greater importance to the overall mission in the United States: he and his team of Spetsnaz commandos were to wait for the fighting to get started, and then head across the city to the wealthy suburb of Arcadia, where a certain CIA official lived. 139's handler had told him simply that they were to retrieve the contents of the agent's briefcase, but, as was in his nature, he had dug further, calling in old favors with various friends and assets. What he'd found out had made him feel much better about the whole situation. Apparently, Military Intelligence had gotten its hands on the keys to every lock in the Americans military information network, ensuring that the initial wave would hit them hard. But the enemy was nothing if not resourceful: they would switch to emergency codes as soon as they knew their systems had been infiltrated, and the target would be in possession of a master copy. 139 was no programmer, but he was fairly sure that these codes would give the Russian Federation all the time it needed to crush the United States.

Kamenev, the leader of his Spetsnaz guard detail, spoke up, interrupting 139's reverie.

"When are we moving out, sir?" "Soon, we just have to wait for the fighting to start. We can't afford to draw any unnecessary attention."

139 turned away from the window, looking back into the kitchen of the tiny apartment that had become their home base two months earlier. The three commandos were standing around the table in full gear, camoflauged BDUs, body armor, helmets, and night vision/thermal goggles, in addition to grenades, pistols, knives, and, of course, their AK-103 assault rifles and a Saiga-12 combat shotgun. Smirnov and Vatutin were looking over a map of the city, trying to plan the best way to Arcadia, and were marking down likely areas for American forces to try and defend. 139's confidence was again bolstered. These men were the best, and they clearly had experience in urban combat. _I should have looked up their service records, just to know what to expect. Careless of me..._

He stepped into the bedroom, where his own gear was laid out. He quickly changed out of his plant-issue coveralls and into his BDU and combat boots, pulled on his lightweight body armor, and checked over his weapons, a silenced 6P9 pistol and a Vector submachine gun. A veteran of covert operations, 139 knew that lightweight gear was often better than heavy assault equipment, the added maneuverability easily making up for a lack of protection and armor penetration capacity. The agent glanced in the mirror on the dresser, taking a moment of vanity to put his black hair in order before painting his face with the camoflauge kit. As he left the room, he grabbed his radio and burst communicator, then took one last glance around to ensure that none of the team's equipment was left. When they were gone, he wanted this place to look like no one had ever been here.

"Any minute now," 139 said to the group.

A few tense minutes later, the lights flickered and went out as the semtex charges ripped the turbines to shreds, killing the power to the entire metro area. Over the small burst communicator, a message came through. _Landings are beginning, wait 20 minutes for forces to establish momentum, then proceed with assignment. Avoid contact with enemy personnel and contact for evac site when complete._ The group checked over their equipment one last time, then packed up the maps and spent the remainder of the time spreading gasoline throughout the apartment. By the time they were ready to move, the sounds of battle were reaching them through the walls, and Vatutin chuckled slightly to himself.

"What's so funny, soldier?"

"That was a T-90 shot just now. If we've got heavy armor ashore already, the Americans are screwed."

Kamenev stepped forward, scowling. "Stow the chatter, you're Spetsnaz, so act like it!"

"Sorry, Lieutenant," Vatutin said with an embarassed look on his camoflauged face.

139 pulled out his small cigarette lighter, and said, "Alright, let's get moving."

As the group filed out of the apartment door, he lit the gasoline puddled on the kitchen floor, then shut the door behind him and followed the team out into the street.

* * *

The streets were chaos. Civilians were running everywhere, some screaming in panic and trying to get away, while others were busily smashing shop windows and making off with new televisions and stereos. This kind of behavior had never failed to amaze 139, who had seen rioting in five nations over the course of his career. _In Europe, when they riot, they attack embassies, they burn police cars, they shut down factories, here, they just steal things...I don't understand._ There were a few police trying to maintain order, but they were far too distracted by looters to notice the four men quietly moving around the periphery of the crowd. The sounds of combat were getting closer, the sounds of assault rifle and machinegun fire could now clearly be heard, and there were Russian fighters flying low over the city. One of them fired off a burst of cannon fire, knocking a police helicopter out of its way before speeding off to the north, and the squad narrowly evaded being hit by falling debris.

Vatutin broke off from the group for a moment, ducking down the alleyway behind their building, which was now billowing smoke from the top floors. When he returned, he was behind the wheel of the small SUV they'd acquired a few weeks earlier. Unfortunately for the team, this proved to be a much better idea on paper than it was in practice, as the streets were packed thick with civilians and police fleeing from the combat zone, and they were obliged to abandon it after less than a mile. Kamenev led them into a residential area near Arcadia, and they began sneaking through people's back yards, hoping to avoid any contact with soldiers or police. However, as was quickly becoming the norm for this mission, their luck took a sudden turn for the worse.

"The hell are y'all doing on my property!?" a voice called from the back porch of the house they were currently passing. 139 turned to see an extremely drunken man standing in the rear doorway, cradling a shotgun in his arms.

"Y'all U.S. Army?"

Kamenev and the other commandos turned to 139 in confusion, and he realized suddenly that none of them spoke English well enough to convince him, they'd been passing themselves off as German businessmen during the preparatory stage. He took a deep breath and put his Jim Lowry persona back on.

"Yeah, we are, don't go shootin' us, now."

The man looked confused. "Wait...that ain't no U.S. flag on y'all's shoulders..."

139 wracked his brain for a suitable excuse, something that would get them out of this without having to shoot the moron and attract attention to themselves. _What would an American believe?_

"Um...yeah, these BDUs of ours were made in China. See? They've got the flag all messed up. It was supposed to be red, white, and then blue on the bottom, some new design thing, but instead they made it white, blue, red. Can't get anything right."

He seemed to accept this, smiling slightly and chuckling.

"Ain't that the truth? Well, I better not keep y'all from your job, good luck fightin' them Russkie bastards."

139 smiled back at him and said, "Thanks, friend. You'd best get back inside, before any of them show up."

As the man turned around, a thought occurred to 139. _He's a liability. Orders are no witnesses._ He pulled his 6P9 from its holster, checked the silencer, and shot him twice through the back of the head. Dropping the American persona, he turned to Kamenev and the others.

"Keep moving."

* * *

Half an hour later, the team was in Arcadia, ducking through the expansive yards of upper class homes as the residents gathered up their things and fled. There had been some police and what looked like a National Guard humvee parked near the large gates, but they had been too busy getting drunk to notice four commandos climbing the wall. Vatutin, who 139 suspected had voted Bolshevik during the last election, was grumbling to himself.

"This kind of wealth could never be earned by anyone, much less these parasites. With class divisions like this, it's no wonder the United States is going mad."

"Can it, Corporal," Kamenev interjected. "We don't need any attention right now."

"What's the address again?" Smirnov asked quietly.

The agent replied, "4677 Brookmere Road. It's supposed to be the last one on the cul-de-sac."

Kamenev checked their position on the small GPS unit on his wrist, then said, "It should be right across the street. If we cut through this house, we can get pretty close without exposing ourselves."

139 nodded, and Vatutin took point with the Saiga. The back door was locked, but the agent only needed a few seconds to pick the cheap thing with his kit, and the commandos carefully filed inside. There was a great deal of noise coming from upstairs, it sounded like the family was frantically grabbing anything they could carry, and the team used the ambient sound to cover their passage through the kitchen and living room. Thankfully, whoever was up there stayed up there, and they were able to dash across the street without being noticed.

The house was palatial, three stories tall with an in-ground pool visible from the front. _Obviously the CIA keeps its officials well-cared for._ It also had a black SUV still parked in the driveway, and 139 breathed a sigh of relief. _At least he's still here, I wouldn't want to look for him in this mess._ The team went up through the open garage, hoping to avoid any confrontation in the narrow doorway. Vatutin quietly pushed the door to the main house open with the barrel of his Saiga and moved inside, followed by Smirnov, who had slung his AK-103 in favor of a Vector like 139's own. They crept quietly through the kitchen, when suddenly a scream split the silence. As one unit, the team swung around to look, and saw a teenage girl in a white sun dress. She was carrying a suitcase and staring straight at them from the front doorway. _God damn it!_

The girl was paralyzed with fear, and 139 could hear someone approaching upstairs. He muttered quietly to Vatutin, "No witnesses."

The Saiga barked, and the girl fell backwards, her dress now covered in blood. There was a shout of rage and anguish from above, and the barrel of a Desert Eagle was suddenly pointed over the railing, spewing .50cal ammunition down at them.

Kamenev took over, shouting "Move, move, get him!"

The commandos charged up the stairs, and 139 caught a glimpse of a man in a business suit dodging around a corner into a small den or study. They slowed their pursuit, moving carefully into the den. Smirnov took point, checking the corner the target had gone around, and they noticed a large metal door standing slightly ajar. It was a panic room, and it was obviously meant to be concealed behind a large-ish bookcase which had been pushed off to one side. Smirnov nudged the door open, then suddenly reeled back and fell to the floor as another wave of fire came from inside. Kamenev roared in anger and opened up on the man with his rifle. The target had clearly been hit at least once, but he fell back around another corner before they could be sure he was dead.

139 went in himself, sticking the barrel of his Vector around the concrete corner and spraying the far side of the room with bullets. Vatutin was the first around the corner, and he reported that the man was down, but still breathing. He was lying against a shelving unit filled with MREs and water bottles, and his suit was soaked in blood from numerous hits. He was mumbling something to himself that 139 couldn't make out. Kamenev came back from the den to report that Smirnov was dead, then he pulled out his Makarov and, after a glance for the agent's approval, he shot the target twice through the head. While Kamenev and Vatutin went to get Smirnov's tags and equipment, the agent knelt down and began rifling through the target's briefcase. As expected, there was a small black case holding a PDA and two flash drives, and after a few minutes of impromptu hacking, 139 had confirmed that the codes were both present and intact.

"I have the material, let's move."

Vatutin was still riled up from the fight, and replied,

"What about Smirnov? Are we supposed to just leave him here?"

"We don't have a choice, we need to get to the evac point," Kamenev responded.

139 pulled out his burst communicator and sent a message to his handlers. _Material obtained. Target eliminated. One Spetsnaz casualty, KIA. Designate evacuation site._ A few moments later, the reply came through: _Extraction at Point Sigma, repeat, Point Sigma. Contact is lead communications officer for 17th Armored Div._ 139 sighed in frustration, Point Sigma was a bank more than two miles away, and the fastest route would take the team straight through the combat zone.

"Alright people, we're headed to Sigma, so let's get moving."

* * *

After about twenty minutes of relative calm, the commandos began to see sporadic fighting, and the sounds of combat were getting louder every minute. From the looks of things, the Russians were winning, as there were numerous wrecked American vehicles along the route, and it appeared that Frontal Aviation had established air superiority. The only planes 139 had seen since leaving the target house had been SU-50s, and the skies over the combat zone were thick with Mi-28 and Ka-52 attack helicopters. The problem was that there seemed to be several American strongpoints in the area, and the team had only narrowly evaded a sniper holed up atop a fast food restaurant a few minutes earlier.

They had been obliged to shoot their way out of Arcadia after an American cargo plane went down in flames almost directly on top of the target house, drawing the attention of the police and National Guard personnel at the gates, but the Russians' superior training and equipment ensured that it had been a short engagement. Since then, they had avoided any actual combat, the sole exception being a looter who had inexplicably tried to mug 139 while Kamenev and Vatutin had been scouting ahead. The agent, in a moment of frustrated aggression, had fractured the man's neck just badly enough to paralyze him without being instantly fatal. _Although he's probably suffocated by now..._

Kamenev hopped down from the roof of a small convenience store, where he had been scouting out enemy positions.

"It looks like there's an American strongpoint in the commerical area up ahead. I saw at least eight soldiers on the roof of the Burger Town, and there might be more in the restaurant across the street. But I saw some shell bursts a few blocks to the east, we might have troops coming up."

139 thought for a moment. "We can't risk engagement, we'd better skirt around to the south."

"I don't know, sir," Vatutin replied. "Like I said back at the water tower, there are a ton of APCs moving around there. It looked like a rallying point, and we might get caught right in the middle of it."

As they talked, the sound of gunfire erupted from the direction of the Burger Town. It sounded like Russian forces were pushing forward, and 139 heard the distinctive bark of two 14.7mm KPVT cannons.

The agent said, "It sounds like the cavalry's here. The enemy should be distracted, so we can move around through the yards to the south."

Kamenev nodded, and the three of them quietly crossed the street and headed for the nearby houses. Luckily, most had fenced-off yards, meaning that, although they would have to jump a prodigious number of obstacles, the team would probably remain invisible to any prying American eyes. A harsh "wooshing" sound split the air as a drone missile slammed into the middle of the clashing forces. _I hope that was one of ours..._

As the team emerged from the last yard, 139 directed them towards a small park with a high hedgerow along the street facing the combat zone. They moved one by one to a series of concrete barricades in the middle of the street, probably erected for construction rather than defense, considering the garish orange-and-yellow reflective paint covering them, and were about to move on to the park when their luck failed them again. Suddenly there were tracers spraying over the tops of the barriers, and Americans shouting to each other.

Kamenev tossed a grenade over the top in the direction of the Americans, and he grunted in satisfaction when he heard screams of pain following the blast. This satisfaction was short-lived, however, for soon the Americans were tossing grenades of their own, some landing short and detonating harmlessly, but others flying over the barrier and needing to be tossed back quickly. It was obvious from the volume of incoming fire that the team was not going to win this one on their own, and 139 pulled out his burst communicator, sending off a message.

_Asset compromised, corner of 78th and Green. Significant enemy presence. Reinforcements needed to prevent mission failure._

Kamenev blind-fired another burst from his AK-103, and Vatutin was blazing away with the Saiga, so 139 felt it only appropriate to join in, sending a spray of ammunition from his Vector in the general direction of the Americans. The Lieutenant sat back for a moment to reload, and turned to face the agent.

"Sir, I don't think we're going to make it out of this one."

**Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up, and I hope everyone enjoys it. Also, thanks again to everybody who sent in feedback, it was very helpful.**


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